Auror Case 0904227 – Murder in Market Square
by Hallowed Aegis
Summary: Two years after Harry's promotion to Head of the Auror Office, something fishy's afoot. A straight laced man with a crooked brother is murdered for holding smuggled goods. As old friends and new enemies come to light, Harry stumbles on to the start of something unsettling. But what will it mean? Post Hogwarts, standard pairings, possible series. Read and Review!
1. Chapter 1

So this is actually started as an off shoot of the other HP fic I am working on. However, in the interest of chronological... integrity (?) or just keeping everything straight in my own head, I've tabled that one to rework, and started this! It all starts in 2009, shortly after Harry was named head of the Auror Office. Old friends and new enemies abound. Enjoy!

**Chapter One: Mornings are a Mother**

Once, just once, Harry wished he could ignore the glow. But he knew that if he didn't pick up the coin soon, it would grow blinding, and then it would whistle, waking up his wife in the process. Which in turn would wake the children, and then the whole house would be awake at this ungodly hour. It wasn't worth the surliness of his wife, or the seemingly endless energy of their offpring.

Grumbling to himself, Harry groped for piece of metal, its light dimming back to a candle's worth the moment his fingers closed about it. Sitting up, he fumbled for him glasses, nearly losing an eye in the process. Beside him, he felt a warm body stir.

Ginny's brown eyes glinted in the watery light, her hair mussed and her body warm from sleep. Harry felt that same stab of warmth he always felt whenever he looked at his wife. Even half asleep, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

The coin, seemingly aware of the eventual destination of such thoughts, flared irritably. Feeling distinctly peeved, Harry pocketed the thing as he got out of bed.

Ginny was sitting up now, the covers really not doing anything to hide her body from view. Harry tore his gaze away and made a show of pulling his clothes out of the burea as quickly and quietly as possible. As soon as he was dressed, he went back to the bedside.

"Sorry love, getting called in to the office. Go back to sleep. I'll send an owl as soon as I know what's going on," he murmured, tucking an errant flame colored strand behind her ear.

Ginny nodded, her eyes sharp despite the fact that it was three in the morning. "I've got that game down in Hampfordshire this afternoon, but I should be back tonight. And remember, we're having Ron and Hermione over at seven," she whispered back, giving his hand a squeeze.

Harry rubbed his temples. "Damn, forgot about that. Hopefully Kreature won't mind helping out with dinner again. I swear, he does more as a retired house elf than he did before."

Ginny grinned, her eyes alight in the gloom. "Stop your worrying. Kreature will be head over heels to do something other than monitor that nephew of his. Ask him yourself on your way out if you don't believe me. Now go, before it wakes the children." Ginny stretched up, kissing him softly. Harry felt his mind blank at the feel of her. In his pocket, the coin let out a low hissing sound.

Cursing under his breath, Harry made for the door.

* * *

Ginny was right, as always. Kreature was beside himself with glee, pleased to be in charge of the dinner preparations. The elf bustled about the gleaming kitchen, placing a steaming mug of coffee in front of Harry.

"Of course Master Harry, Kreature is happy to oversee this evening's courses. And his nephew, Lot, will be most useful. He can do the cleaning, while Kreature handles the more delicate tasks," the elf said in his throaty voice. Harry hid his grin in the coffee mug. Kreature was positively ancient, and these days he resembled an Egyptian mummy more than a member of the living. However, he had flatly refused when Harry had offered to free him, and it had taken the better part of a decade to convince him to accept his "retirement." Of course, Kreature had promptly brought in his hereto unkown nephew Lot to train in the service to the family. Hermione had tried to talk them both out of it, but Harry knew better. Kreature had taken his retirement as permission to do things about the house as he saw fit, and was highly unlikely to relinquish the status.

"Master Harry, you is not listening," Harry heard a reproachful voice croak near his kneecap. Kreature was staring at him with baleful eyes.

"Er, sorry Kreature, was just thinking of the kids," Harry said quickly, feeling guilty.

Kreature nodded solemnly. "Kreature will be sure they is helpful in assisting for tonight. Now, Kreature is wondering if he should make pudding or the treacle tart, Master Harry?" Harry opened his mouth when Kreature began puttering away, saying, "Of course you is wanting the treacle, Kreature knows this."

Harry smiled again as the elf brought back the pot of coffee, topping off the mug. He did hate being called in this early, but at least he had his coffee first.

* * *

When Harry stepped out of the grate and into the main hall of the Ministry of Magic, he was surprised at the amount of people. While by no means as crowded as it would be in a few hours, there were many more people about than usual. Most he recognized as those in his office. Not something that boded well for the day.

He had just stepped onto his floor when a figure almost collided with him. They had been pacing outside the lift, obviously waiting. With a start, they fell back, papers floating down around them.

"Sorry boss!" a voice said weakly from the ground. Bouncing upright, the woman pulled out her wand and began summoning papers back to their folder, her cheeks bright red. Harry resisted the urge to sigh. Maggie Tremlett was the best talent to come out of the Auror training pool in years, but she did suffer from bouts of over enthusiasm. This had all the signs of one of those moments.

"Hi boss. Sorry to call you in so late, but we've got a dead body and a material witness, and he says he knew you and he wouldn't leave until he spoke to you and he really was starting to cause a fuss so I activated the coin and called Mr. Weasley in too, the man says he knows the both of you, actually he said that-"

"Tremlett." Harry said repressively, beginning to wish he had asked Kreature for some coffee to go. He wasn't up for this at three thirty in the morning.

"Right boss. Sorry boss. Anyhow, I've set him by your desk," she said briskly, passing him the folder. She began following Harry as he weaved his way in and around the cubicles that made up the Auror Office, reading the file intently.

"Body found, signs of torture, dark magic… have we sent someone up from Retrograde up yet? What's his name, Grundry?" he asked, ducking through a door unconsciously. Maggie checked her own notes.

"Grundry's out at the moment, seems his gout is acting up. But he sent his assistant up. Quinn. Supposed to be bloody brilliant, pardoning the language, boss," Maggie said, chewing on the end of her quill. "Quinn should have all the evidence we need by seven, according to Grundry."

"Good," Harry said, his eyes scanning the report. He flipped a page and started, the name catching his eye and freezing it on the spot.

A vaguely familiar smell, one of old tobacco and dirty socks, washed over him. Next to his desk, an old, wrinkly man stood up, his mournful face contorted by grief.

"Well, if it innit 'arry Potter. Fanks for showing up," Mundugus Fletcher said, his voice cracking as his watery eyes began to fill.

* * *

I'm still trying to get a feel for how Dung sounds in my head. Hopefully it turns out well. Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own any JKR material.

**Chapter Two: Bodies and Lies**

"So let me get this straight, Dung. You took payment from a man you don't know for a shipment of you-don't-know-what from you-don't-know-where and you left it with Marcus, who is now dead and the shipment has disappeared. Do I have that right?" Harry asked, watching Fletcher closely.

Dung wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and nodded. "Yeah, that's about r-right," he said shakily. The old man smoothed his handkerchief out with trembling fingers.

Next to Harry, Ron leaned forward in his chair, eyes hard. "C'mon Dung, what kind of bungnobs you take us for?" he snapped, his voice like a whip in the quiet interview room.

Harry watched coolly as Ron hammered away at Fletcher's alibi. He knew Dung wasn't their killer. For one thing, Dung had always been short in the courage department. Dung was a career criminal, a maestro of petty crimes, cons, and flimflams. But the old man had never been keen on risking his hide for anyone or anything, let alone an act that could land his retirement years in Azkaban. Most importantly, Harry knew Dung wasn't the sort to murder his own blood.

But he also wasn't telling the whole story. Harry and Ron both knew Dung lied as easily as he breathed; for all that he had discovered the victim, had called in the Aurors, and had raised a fuss until he had the attention of the Office Head, he was still holding back some bit of information. So Harry let Ron have at him.

He was grateful it was Ron with him this morning; the rest of his team was excellent, but with Ron, he never had to explain, never had to wonder if there would be a miscommunication. Though Harry knew the pay was far worse, he was dearly thankful that Ron had left the joke shop a few years ago. He needed someone he could trust.

With that thought, he turned his focus back to Dung. The man looked like he had been eaten by a dragon and then spit back out. His hair was matted, his clothes fraying. His eyes were bloodshot and blurred with tears; the man hadn't been able to contain himself from the moment he saw Harry. He looked like a man falling apart at the seams; not in keeping with how Harry remembered. Mundungus had always been a bit rough to look at, but this was something new.

When he judged Dung was on the verge of tears, Harry broke through Ron's verbal lashing.

"Alright Dung, let's say we buy into this nonsense about you acting as a smuggler," at that word, Dung squeaked, clearly about to interrupt; Harry held up a hand. "A smuggler. Why would you leave the product with the victim? How could you know he wouldn't just do a bunk and make off with the shipment, leaving you high and dry?"

Fletcher made a violent motion with his hands, and Harry saw that he had struck a nerve. He continued, his voice light and easy. "Or did you do the deed yourself? Did he get nosy? Start prying into your business? Try to hold you up for money? What-"

"You don't know _noffing_," Dung hissed, his eyes shooting daggers at Harry. "I-I came here 'cause I thought you could help! I would _never_ have left it there if I thought Marcus…" the heat in his voice died as quickly as it had come, and Dung rested his head in his hands, great shuddering sobs wracking his entire frame.

Ron shot a quick glance at Harry out of the corner of his eye. Harry knew what his friend was thinking, and agreed.

Ron leaned forward, his voice gentle. "Come on Dung. We'll ask again. Why trust him?"

Dung looked up, tears streaming down his face. "H-He's me brother," he whimpered, his voice sounding distinctly clogged. "W-would never hurt Marcus. I had a business opportunity down at the Cauldron, so I says to 'im, let me leave the crate at yer place, an' I'll buy 'im a whole bottle of Rosmerta's mead. An, an, Marcus says o' course he'll keep it safe, an' to make it a b-big bottle, his birthday bein' around the corner an' all," Mundungus blew his nose into the handkerchief noisily. "So I goes down to the Cauldron, takes care of this an that, and when I get back…" Dung dissolved into sobs again, completely overcome.

Harry felt Ron's eyes on him, and gave a slight nod. He believed Fletcher. He'd been fairly sure he would, but he wanted to sound him out properly before he committed himself to the case. No sense in getting off to a bad start because Harry had been too lazy to double-check his gut.

"Alright Dung, alright, we believe you," he said soothingly, conjuring a fresh handkerchief out of thin air. Dung to the proffered scrap of fabric and scrubbed his eyes furiously. His voice was still thick, but his shaking began to subside.

"I woulda never taken the job if I'da known what would happen to M-Marcus," he whispered. "He's got a son, an' a grandson. Kid already saw his gran die, an' his mum ran off two years ago. T-Tam'll be in a right state." Dung began wringing the handkerchief, misery oozing out from him like an invisible, heavy cloud.

Ron clapped Mundungus on the shoulder. "Ease up there mate. We'll send in one of ours, they'll take your statement. Then you'll be needed at home, with your nephew and grand nephew."

Fletcher nodded dumbly, still worrying the piece of cloth. "I just don't know why anyone would've killed Marcus," he said softly, eyes filling again. "Marcus wasn't like me, 'e didn't take risks. 'E wasn't daft."

Ron shot Harry another glance over Dung's head. Harry met his eyes. He didn't have the heart to tell Dung either. Neither of them wanted to say that Marcus was probably killed because of Dung. For not giving his brother away.

* * *

"Well, this is a right proper mess it is," Ron said, putting his feet up on his desk. Harry watched as Ron fiddled with a toothpick in the side of his mouth. It was annoying habit, but a useful one. The toothpick was a barometer for Ron's mood these days. Steady, and Ron was at ease; movement meant Ron was agitated. Today it was a veritable whirlwind of motion.

"Yeah it is," Harry said heavily, looking over the report again, adding a few notes here and there. "Our first step'll be to get to the crime scene, see if there's anything Quinn missed."

Ron snorted, the toothpick bobbing up and down. "Right, and after that, we just have to hunt down a man with no name, no home, all with no idea of what he was transporting. Simple," he growled, rolling his eyes.

Harry grimaced. "I know. Come on then, may as well get a leg up on it." Ron grumbled, but began collecting his things. They were almost finished when Tremlett bopped in front of them.

"Boss! Where're you going? Into the field? Oh boss, come on, let me come along, Warwick and Rithin have things under control here, and Longbottom's still out. Please, boss."

Harry resisted the urge to look heavenward. Ron was looking at Tremlett as if he'd like nothing more than to put a Full Body Bind on her and drop her in the Thames. Harry knew Ron wasn't at his best this early in the morning; it was probably best not to tempt fate.

"Tremlett, I need you to man the fort, get any incoming Aurors without a case up to speed. Ask if they've heard about anything being moved in the past few weeks, who's doing the moving, who's got the gold, the usual," Harry said, reaching for his long duster.

Tremlett was positively vibrating with pride, excited to be in charge of such an important job. "Right boss, get the specs on local activities regarding smuggling and persons connected with such activities etcetera," she said, nodding smartly.

"Right. Send along a report if anything crops up," said Harry, checking his wand. One desk over, Ron was finishing similar preparations. Before Tremlett could unleash any further displays of enthusiasm, they beat a hasty retreat for the door.

* * *

One quick trip via Floo Powder later, Harry and Ron were staggering out of a large grate into Diagon Alley. It was business as usual, the cobbled street already a congested river of wizards and witches, each intent on reaching their destination. Ron and Harry did their best to blend in, not wanting stir up a panic that a murder off Diagon Alley would surely provoke.

Beside him, Ron was grumbling, a never-ending litany about his absolute hatred for early mornings.

"Y'know, she's too keen for my tastes. It's like Percy in miniature, only she's a dab hand with curses. What on earth possessed you to sign off on someone who's so bloody chipper at five in the morning?" he hissed under his breath as he ruffled his copper bright hair. The toothpick, momentarily forgotten in the fireplace, was out and jerking about.

"She got top marks in everything Ron, as you well know. So what if she's a bit overeager; we were the same when we started," Harry whispered back, hiding his grin.

Ron harrumphed. "Well I still say it's a bit much. A man shouldn't have to deal with that much zeal this early in the morning. It's bad enough I didn't get a proper breakfast, I didn't even get a chance to-"

Harry cut him off abruptly. "Ron, you're my best mate. But I don't want to hear any more about how the job cuts into your personal time with Hermione." The very thought made him woozy.

"A man's got needs, Harry," Ron said hotly. "We're only just getting back into the swing of things, what with Hugo finally getting through nights, and it's about time I"

"If you finish that sentence, then I'll start to tell you about _my_ needs for _my_ wife," Harry said through gritted teeth.

"Oi! That's my sister you're talking about there! Show some respect!" Ron said indignantly.

"And Hermione's as good as my sister! So stuff it!" Harry shot back. The pair of them glared at each other for a long moment, and then continued on their way, each hiding grins.

It was good to have Ron back.

* * *

It was a short walk down to the Diagon Alley South. After that, it was a quick turn by the Junk Shop, a jaunt down a narrow lane, and then they had arrived in Market Square.

It was a large, open plaza, with various restaurants and shops packed tight around the cobbled expanse. At the very center stood an impressive fountain. The pair walked past it, not even glancing at the statue of Merlin shooting water out of his nose.

Ron kept watch while Harry opened to door to a shop in the farthest corner. It was a smart little storefront, kept in excellent repair. Harry tapped the lock, and the door swung open.

The exterior had done much to hide the horror that awaited them. Slumped over the counter was Marcus Fletcher, eyes wide and mouth agape. Ron held a handkerchief to his nose, trying to stifle the smell already rolling off the body. Harry knelt beside it, looking carefully.

His elbows were bent at an unnatural angle, as if someone had broken them and then reset his arms multiple times. Jagged gashes littered his flesh, while blood had pooled and stiffened beneath the body. Below the waist, his clothes were drenched in blod.

All around them, the store was in shambles. It had clearly been a magical repair shop of sorts, everything gleaming even though the items were in pieces. Dark red spatters had congealed everywhere, along the display case, on the floor, and even (Harry's stomach gave a lurch) dangling from the chandelier.

"You know, I don't blame Dung for being so cagey with us," Ron murmured, his face oddly sympathetic as he conjured a sheet to cover the body. "I reckon I'd be scared witless, too."

Harry had opened his mouth to reply when he heard it; sharp staccato steps, heels rattling on the cobblestone outside. He and Ron pulled out there wands and stood on either side of the door. They waited, seconds passing as hours while the steps grew louder and louder, hammering on until they stopped outside the entrance.

Slowly, the door opened. As one, Harry and Ron fired; only to have an explosion of light throw them back.

* * *

I finally figured out how Dung sounded; hopefully it turned out alright. And I'll admit it; a lot of the character names are stolen/ inspired from cast members :)

Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own any of JKR's material.

**Chapter Three: Curses Big and Small**

"Well what do you expect when you try to jinx me twelve ways from midnight!" Maggie Tremlett roared at Ron, cowing his friend most efficiently. "I come in because we've got a lead, and you try hexing me while I'm set to deliver it!"

"Damn it girl, you know better than to sneak up on two Aurors!" Ron snarled back, over his initial fear at Maggie's stunningly effective impersonation of both Hermione and Molly Weasley. "What the hell do you shoot me with, anyway?" he growled, clawing at his eyes as they swelled shut.

"Conjunctivus Curse," Tremlett said primly, tossing her chestnut plait over her shoulder. "Can't hex what you can't see. Hold still, I'll set it right in a tick."

Ron stumbled away, blindly groping for Harry. "Oh no, I'm not having you point that anywhere _near_ me."

Tremlett huffed and turned to Harry, who had just finished repairing his glasses. "Apologize for the confusion, boss. Thought I was getting jumped," she said, obviously not the least bit sorry that she had hexed a senior Auror's eyes shut and given the Head of Office a large knot on the back of his head to boot.

Harry gave her a razor sharp grin. "Nice bit of spell work, Tremlett. But next time, announce yourself."

Tremlett sniffed. "Yes. Anyway, Quinn finished the report early, came up with a few things. Said if you had finished with your walkthrough of the crime scene, we could send down folks to clean it up, get the body to the Fletcher family for burial," she reported, clearly still miffed at her reception. She began to look around the room, growing greener by the second. "I say, boss, this place looks awful. Is that…blood?" she asked, pointing to the chandelier.

Ron glanced up, his blue eyes troubled. "Harry, this is too much blood to be from just those cuts we saw," he murmured, moving to stand next to Harry.

"I know," Harry replied softly, his lips barely moving; Tremlett was gamely attempting to eavesdrop. Having looked over the scene himself, the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end; the whole store practically crackled with residual dark magic. He wasn't at all sorry to leave it behind.

* * *

"All right, what do we know about Marcus Fletcher," Ron asked sharply, his eyes darting from Warwick to Rithin and back to Warwick, patently ignoring Tremlett. Harry didn't expect him to forgive the Auror-in-training any time soon; his eyes were still an alarming shade of red, with a rather gooey looking substance collecting in the corner of the left one.

"Marcus Fletcher, sixty-five, lives in a flat above his Repair Shop. Specializes in magical antiquities that need a bit of tender loving care, says his advertisement in the Daily Prophet. Well liked, no complaints from the neighbors. Active in the Diagon Alley community, known to fix children's toys for free. Doting grandfather, has his grandson Tancred up every Sunday while the shop is closed. Has a tidy stash up at Gringotts, no debts, no problems with the Ministry. All in all, quite old man that did his best by his neighbors," Warwick grunted, his blocky, brutal features scowling out at the room.

"He sees Dung every few weeks, usually to pay his tab at the Leaky Cauldron. Pays Dung's bail every now and again, always in good spirits about it. No known enemies, no angry customers," Rithin piped up. He was a scrawny, weedy looking man, black eyes darting about. He was their best potion brewer in the department.

"Looks like a warning, sir. Couldn't find Dung, so the bastards tortured ol' Marcus. Maybe they wanted to tie up loose ends, maybe the just wanted to scare Dung. But it was meant to send a message," Warwick growled, his muddy eyes hard.

"Still no accounting for all the blood at the scene, though," Ron murmured, his toothpick wagging.

Tremlett let out a very gusty, very annoyed sigh. "Sirs, if you will check the report I delivered at the scene, you will see that Quinn believes to have an answer for you. Was banging on about hybrids and techniques," she said haughtily.

Harry flipped to the last page, and saw that Quinn had indeed requested their presence. "Right. Warwick, Rithin, I want you to finish up cataloguing everything. Talk with the Hit Wizards, and see if we can get a straight answer regarding any illegal trafficking in the last six months. Don't," he paused, meeting their eyes, "leave until they give you that answer."

Warwick and Rithin nodded, collected their gear, and made for the door.

Harry turned to Tremeltt. "You're with us. I think it's about time we drop in to see this Quinn of yours." Ron looked positively mutinous as they made their way toward the lift.

* * *

Quinn's office was down in the Experimental Charms wing, down a long twisty corridor. On the door were two plaques, an old grubby one reading "Professor Grundry: Experimental Charms – Retrograde." A newer, smaller one was just below, saying, "Chloe Quinn: Assistant – Experimental Charms – Retrograde." Without knocking, they trooped in. The moment they entered, Harry felt as if he had walked into an aviary; papers and notes were whirling all about the room, arranging themselves on three walls entirely covered in diagrams, calculations, and other strange looking symbols. The fourth wall alone was spared; instead, it had been enchanted to display an enormous, photo. A handsome man with wicked brown eyes was dandling a wispy haired toddler in a garden. The girl was shrieking with laughter, chubby fists firmly rooted in the rich auburn of her father's hair. Next to them, a woman with an extremely long thin nose, amber-blonde hair and silvery eyes had wrapped her arms around the man, smiling up at the child. The entire scene played out like a colossal mural, its characters larger than life.

In the depths of the office, the woman from the wall moved into view, batting her way through the flying papers to reach them. She was much smaller than the enormous portrait made her out to be, petite and slender, nearly drowning in her robes. She smiled shyly, holding out a long, spindly fingered hand.

"You must be Messers Potter and Weasley, and you'll be Miss Tremlett," she said, her voice carrying over the flapping papers.

"Yes. We're here about your report, Madam Quinn," Harry replied, shaking her hand firmly. "We normally work with your supervisor, Professor Grundry. He highly recommended you in his place."

Madam Quinn looked down at her feet, strangly large, pointed ears turning red. "Professor Grundry's such a dear. He stopped over at St. Mungo's last night, his gout is giving him such a turn these days," she said to the floor.

"Yes, we all hope he gets better," Ron said with all the delicacy of a rhinocerous. "But have you found anything? Your report was rather vague, and we've got loads of questions about the scene, so if you haven't…" he trailed off, impatience heavy in his voice. Behind him, Maggie rolled her eyes to the ceiling, a tic working in her jaw furiously.

Madam Quinn straightened at once, clearly switching gears. Gone was her rich, floatly voice; she read off her conclusions with at a rapid-fire machine gun pace Harry normally associated with those suffering a caffeine overdose.

"Mr. Fletcher was found in his shop, Number Two-Oh-Four Market Square, at two thirty this morning, twenty second of April two thousand nine. Shop showed signs of being tossed, cellars searched, the flat upstairs left relatively undisturbed. Most of the focus was in the main shop. Mr. Fletcher was tortured by way of the Cruticiatus Curse, and then suffered a hybrid method of the Entrail-Expelling Curse for approximately three hours. He-"

"Sorry, a _hybrid_ technique? There's more than one way to expel one's entrails?" Ron asked, looking distinctly green around the lips.

Quinn nodded, looking like a spindly bobble head doll. "Oh yes. You see, the original method was developed by Urquhart Rackharrow in the 1600's. That method, which I have labeled as the original method in my report, was certain to result in death. It was a relatively fast acting curse, resulting in death within approximately twenty minutes. However, in 1701, Healer Grimalkin Blane, grandson of Balfour Blane, established a new technique for the spell. You see, it all depended on a wrist flick. Anyway, this method was reversible, allowing healers the ability to mend any intenstinal issues and then slipping them back in. Of course, if was extremely painful, but it was generally agreed to be much more sophisticated than the original method, which Rackharrow used on his mother in law. Anyhow – ," here she drew a deep breath before continuing. Harry was relieved for the brief lull – his mind needed to catch up. "- the method used on Mr. Fletcher is a combination of the two. From what I can tell, the entrails were expelled via the Blane method, reinserted, expelled again with the Rackharrow method, reinserted via the Blane method, etcetera, for a period no less than three hours. Having found only minimal intenstine residue, I concluded that they were systematically cropping them while Mr. Fletcher was alive." Quinn finished quickly, her wide eyes sad. "I'm afraid that who ever did this wanted Mr. Fletcher to suffer every moment of it. There were traces of the Rennervate Charm being used periodically."

Maggie Tremlett looked horror-struck; Ron's knuckles were bloodless. Harry felt his gut turn over at the thought of Marcus Fletcher being tortured for hours on end, forced to feel every passing second.

"And you just thought you'd share all those cheery details with us, is that it? Like that man's suffering was some damned experiment?" Ron snapped, two flags of outrage flying high on his cheeks. Madam Quinn flinched.

"No, no! Not at all! I would never," she stumbled over her words, looking horrified at the suggestion. "It has bearing. The person who did this has had _training_, advanced training, as a Healer. That spell is only taught to those seeking a position at St. Mungo's. And the Rackharrow method hasn't been a part of the curriculum for the better part of a century!" she said clumsily, her ears bright red again. She looked on the verge of tears.

Ron looked disgruntled, muttering an apology under his breath. Harry nodded, pulling at his lip thoughtfully. This was the first real lead they'd had. Finally, they knew where to start looking.

"Good work, Quinn. We'll be in touch," he said at last, making for the door.

"Wait, don't you want to know what else I found?" Quinn said sharply, cutting them off. Harry wheeled around. Slowly, he raised an eyebrow.

Long fingers trembling, Quinn held up a long, vicious looking magenta spike. "Venomous Tentacula Spines. Largest I've ever seen. And it isn't from any plant catalogued in Britain," she said quietly. Harry took the spine carefully, wrapped it in his handkerchief, and nodded.

As soon as he, Ron and Tremlett were out the door, he murmured, "I want Longbottom here yesterday. I think we know what our killer was trying to move."

* * *

A rather gruesome chapter. The team has a lead, but where will it take them...?


	4. Chapter 4

I do not own any JKR creations.

**Chapter Four: Dinner and a Fort**

Neville Longbottom looked worse for wear as he slumped over his desk. Dark circles were stark against his pale skin, blue stubble painting his chin. He had just returned from a long stint with a joint task force, thinking he was about to catch up on some long over due sleep. Instead, he was staring blearily at the largest Tentacula spine he had ever seen.

Harry felt guilty for pulling Neville in when he so blatanly needed sleep. However, Harry needed something before he sent his team into the field, and Neville was their resident expert on all things Herbology.

"'m sorry mate. Just give me something, and I swear I'll let you sleep till Friday," he murmured, watching as Neville rubbed his face again, eyes glued, unseeing, on the spine.

Neville waved a hand at him. "No, it's fine Harry. There's not much I can tell you, other than this is a real whopper. And it's discolored; not the usual shade for Tentacula grown in Britain. Or anywhere in Northern Europe for that matter," he said, yawning so widely Harry feared Neville's jaw would split.

"Why would someone smuggle in Tentacula spines?" Ron asked from his desk, toothpick a steady metronome.

"Well, Venomous Tentacula's aren't banned in Britain, persay," Neville said, leaning back in his chair. "But all Tentacula's must be registered; all Tentacula growers pay an annual tax on the things. Spines are useful in potions, worth a lot of money these days. They're dangerous to grow, see. And they loose potency within a year of being harvested. The richer the color in the spine, the more potent it is. A bugger like this… I'd have to test it, but I'd say it packs a wallop," he said, pausing thoughtfully. "A man could make a fortune selling high potency spines on the black market," he finished quietly.

Harry nodded, thinking quickly. "Alright Neville, thanks. Get on home, I'm sure Hannah's worried as it is. We'll send this along; any recommendations?"

"Professor Sprout. She's your best bet, and she'll get back to you quickly. She mentioned a student in her letters, supposed to be brilliant; I'd trust her, if Sprout asks," he said, staggering to his feet.

"Right. Get out of here, and don't come in until those," he pointed to the dark circles, "are gone," Harry said briskly. Neville grinned, saluted, and left.

Ron looked over at Tremlett. "Any word from our boys, Miss Auror-in-training?" he asked snarkily.

"Warwick and Rithin both got the runaround from our friends over in the Department of International Cooperation. They've decided to stay a while, help… inspire the folks over there to greater efforts," she said coolly, not batting an eye at Ron's tone. "Boss, I can send the sample out to Professor Sprout with our evening post," she offered, finishing off her notes. Harry shook his head.

"Tremlett, if you wouldn't mind, I'd prefer if you dropped the sample of personally. I don't like the idea of losing our only bit of evidence," he said after a long moment.

Maggie positively glowed with pride. "Right boss. Happy to, boss. I'll send an owl once I've made contact with Professor Sprout." Harry nodded, waving her off. Tremlett collected the spine reverently, and then bustled out.

"May as well go home, mate. I've got the Healer logs going back fifty years; no reason to stay here when we can be comfortable back elsewhere," Harry said bracingly. Ron nodded, rolling his shoulders.

* * *

By the time Harry was walking up the steps to number 12 Grimmauld Place, it was a torrential downpour. He was quite sure he had never been more thankful to walk through the door. Harry eased it open, scuffing his feet on the doormat; Kreature was a stickler about tracking mud into the house.

Harry had never meant to actually _live_ in the house; it had happened by accident. First it had been convenient, what with his Auror training and commute to the office every day. Harry, though he hadn't wanted to admit it at the time, also found the endless protections on the place to be a comfort. Moody's theory of "Constant Vigilance," proved a lifelong commitment, and the events of his youth underscored the value of a safe, secure home. And Harry knew of no other home that was safer than Grimmauld Place, after he, Ron, and Hermione had mended the damaged spells on the house.

When he and Ginny married, they wanted someplace in London, close to work and accessible. By that point, Kreature, inspired by the gift of a second floor bedroom as a family museum of sorts, had spared no effort in making number 12 as livable as possible. Banisters gleamed; light colored walls gave the place an airy feel. Walburga had a Silencing Charm placed on her portrait. Furniture was in the best of repair, and no cobweb dared form under Kreature's malevolent gaze. The result was a warm, welcoming home conveniently located near the heart London.

At the moment, though, serenity did not seem to be the house's selling point. Though delicious smells were indeed wafting up from the kitchen, Harry could also hear the thundering of footsteps and shouts from all directions. Fortifying himself, he waited for the horde to descend.

"Da-ddy! Ca'ch me!" screamed a red-headed scrap of a girl, scarcely more than two. With that warning, the girl flung herself from the steps. Harry dropped his briefcase, and, tripping over his coat, managed to keep his youngest from braining herself on the low-hanging chandelier.

"Lily, we do not jump from the high steps, remember?" Harry asked breathlessly, wiping sweat from his upper lip. The little girl cackled, but nodded all the same, quite unrepentant as she snuggled down into her father's shoulder.

Harry didn't bother attempting to put Lily down; long experience had taught him exactly how futile the effort was. Instead, we bent down awkwardly, managed to scoop up his belongings, and trooped down to the kitchen.

* * *

The kitchen was a haven of repose. Kreature lorded over his domain, tending to no less than five enormous stew pots, three saucepans, and what looked like an enormous casserole. He was thankful that Kreature had the sense not to put his boys near the cutlery; one near-accident was enough for the day. However, he was unsure of what his boys had done to warrant dish duty. He grimaced; he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Trooping in and out of the room was Kreature's nephew, Lot. Lot had inherited Kreature's bulbous nose and copious amounts of ear hair – clearly familial traits. He was small even for a house elf, barely coming to Harry's thigh. His ears reminded Harry of Thestral wings, wide and swooping rather than long and pointed. His eyes were a shocking violet shade. Lot was a welcome addition to the family. Quicker on his feet than Kreature, he was more cheerful by far, getting along famously with the boys. Still, Harry did not like the look of a rather spectacular bruise forming on Lot's cheekbone, or what looked to be half a tissue box stuffed up his right nostril.

Ginny was seated at one end of the long table, her hair burning in the firelight. Harry's heart did a little stutter, seeing his wife frown over her latest column.

Seemingly, Ginny heard it. She glanced up and smiled, her face glorious. Harry felt something ease inside his chest, just like it always did when he returned home after a trying day. Ginny raised her arms, beckoning her youngest. Lily strained in his arms, scrambling to reach her mother; Harry handed her over gratefully. Keeping his voice low, he asked, "Dare I ask why the boys are scrubbing pots this early in the evening?"

Ginny shot a black look at her male offspring. "James decided it would be interesting to put socks in the soup and lock Lot in the pantry. Then he threw in that awful book of Hagrid's, what's it called, Monster Book something? Kreature was scandalized and Lot looks like he went a round with a Blast-Ended Skrewt."

"So that's James. What about-" Harry was cut off, Ginny sending another glare towards her boys. The pair redoubled their efforts, seeming to know their mother was watching.

"Albus lied about it," she said simply. Then she raised her voice. "I've decided that since James was so eager to make Sock Soup, that can be his dinner for the evening."

Their eldest whirled around, looking positively aghast. "But that'll taste howwible!" James squeaked, eyes wide. Ginny nodded solemnly.

"Yes, I know. But maybe if Mr. Kreature thinks you've worked extra hard, I will consider letting you have his delicious soup instead. Maybe."

James looked wildly at Kreature, who merely sniffed impressively before turning back to his preparations. Harry stifled a grin as he heard James hiss to his younger brother, "C'mon Alabus, we's gotta make Mistouw Kweachowa happy again!"

* * *

Dinner itself was a subdued affair. Hermione, Ron, and the children arrived exactly at seven. Everyone exchanged pleasantries, and then set about devouring the meal before them; no one wanted to miss the excellent cooking.

Much later, while the children built a pillow fort, their parents watched from a few feet away, enjoying a spot of coffee.

Hermione was busy applying to Kreature, trying yet again to convince him to take his retirement more seriously. Ginny and Harry exchanged a glance before snorting into their coffee cups; Kreature was doing an extraordinary job at feigning deafness, responding to only a few of Hermione's questions while totally ignoring any mention of resigning his post within the house.

Eventually, Hermione gave up, collapsing on a chaise with a disgusted look on her face. Harry tried to disguise his amusement, but to no avail; Hermione shot him a dark look and pounced.

"You know, you really ought to do more to convince Kreature to take it easy," she said hotly, her bushy hair a wild tangle around her flushed face. Ron chose this moment to check on the children; Harry suspected that his friend's interest in the pillow fort had less to do with quality time than it did with wanting a strategically superior place to hide.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Hermione, we've _tried_. He wants no part of it. We do set aside money for him every month, and he puts that toward his little museum upstairs, but it would probably kill him to totally stop. And Lot's no better."

"Well," Hermione harrumphed, not really saying anything. Harry noticed that she looked rather tired. Of all of them, Hermione seemed to look the oldest, crowsfeet fanning out from her eyes and two deep lines framing her mouth.

Ginny noticed as well. She quickly changed the subject. "How is everything at the office?" she asked, a smile playing at the corner of her lips as her brother cautiously peeked his head out from the fort.

Hermione let out a gusty sigh, leaning back into an overstuffed pillow. "It's rather awful, actually," she admitted, sounding downtrodden. "We're still trying to get all the votes in the Moot for the Elfish Welfare Statute. We've made some progress, but there are still loads of wizards who aren't that enthused about the proposition. And that Our Future faction keeps dragging its heels, throwing a wrench into the entire process when our backs are turned…!" she sighed again, rubbing her eyes. Harry noted with shock a slight whisp of grey hair in the tangled brown mane. "If it wasn't for Madam Stewart, I don't think we'd ever get the votes. Thankfully she's as steadfast as they come, and a ferocious politico to boot." Harry watched as water gathered in Hermione's eyes, startled; Hermione had never been overly emotive. "Sometimes, I think we'll never get it passed," she whispered softly, looking thoroughly broken.

Ron took that moment to return, placing an arm around his wife. "Oh come on now, none of that. Madam Stewart's never been one to back down for a fight, you've seen what she's done as Head of Magical Law Enforcement. And you're the best thing the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures has got going for it," he said heartily, giving her a little squeeze. Harry and Ginny chimed in a beat behind him, all three setting themselves to the task of raising Hermione's spirits.

* * *

By the time their guests left, the children were exhausted, Hermione was smiling again, and the parlor looked as if a hurricane had blown through. Lot was positively gleeful as he shooed them out, insisting he would set all to rights in no time.

After Harry and Ginny had tucked the children in bed, they made their way up to their bedroom, both grateful for the early night. They had just finished changing into their pajamas when a soft knock gave them pause.

Kreature stumped in, his the white of his ear hair glowing in the dim light. In his hand he clutched a letter.

"Excusing myself, Master, Mistress," he said, his bullfrog voice echoing ominously in the room as he bowed. "Master, you is having a message, from Professor Pomona Sprout."

Harry stared for a moment before nodding. Kreature continued. "Madam Sprout has requested that you spare Mr. Longbottom to cover her duties at the castle. She will be at your office tomorrow morning. She is apologizing for her tardiness, owing to her need to gather her supplies."

With that, the house elf shuffled out, leaving Harry dumbstruck. What about that spine would cause Professor Sprout to leave Hogwarts so close to exams? And more importantly, what would make her so edgy as to apologize for not coming before seven the next morning?

* * *

A little slice of family life, and a few hints for later cases


	5. Chapter 5

**I do not own any of JKR's material.**

**Chapter Five: Peddlers, Professors, and Pains**

When Harry arrived at the office the next day, he was unsurprised to see Pomona Sprout in front of his desk. He was, however, a bit taken aback by her manner and the decidedly militant look in her eye. She was pacing, her patched witches hat wobbling dangerously atop her grizzled, wiry hair. Professor Sprout had always been firm, but he had never seen her so riled. Maggie Tremlett was attempting to pacify her, only to be waved away every few moments with what was plainly rapidly mounting aggravation.

Her eyes lighted on him a moment later, and she bustled up to him, every gesture and moment deepening the pit in Harry's stomach.

"Mr. Potter," she said briskly, grey eyes darting about the room. "I trust there is someplace we can speak privately?"

Harry nodded, bowing Professor Sprout toward the interview rooms. He passed Tremlett, who was thoroughly worn out. She had the look of someone who had lost a lot of sleep recently, dark circles heavy under her eyes while her hair, normally tightly bound in its plait, was escaping in lank and lifeless hanks about her face.

"What's the story, Tremlett?" he murmured, watching as Sprout settled her self in a chair that was almost too high for her, hauling a large, bulging brown satchel up beside her.

"She's a right old terror, she is," Maggie whispered back, sounding exhausted. "Had me up all night prepping her bag for travel. Would've been here at four if I hadn't reminded her that we agreed on a seven o'clock meeting. As it was, we've been here since five thirty."

"Good work, Tremlett," Harry said, clapping her on the shoulder. He began to move on when Maggie grabbed his sleeve, eyes concerned.

"Boss, whatever has Sprout in such a state, it can't be mild," she said softly. "I've never seen her like this."

Harry nodded. He had been thinking the same thing. "If Weasley or Warwick come in, send them my way," he said by way of dismissal, heading into the room. Tremlett nodded. "And get yourself some coffee. I don't think this is going to be a short day."

* * *

As Harry sat opposite his chair, he wondered at how the years had done so little to change Pomona Sprout. She was exactly as he remembered from his school days, flyaway hair, grass-stained robes, and the smell of rich earth and growing things heavy in the air. There was one thing different, however. Her gimlet eyes fixed on him; Harry couldn't recall ever seeing Professor Sprout so intent, or so scared.

"Professor Sprout, I want to thank you for-" he began, only to be cut off.

"No time for that Potter, no time! Have you any idea where this came from?" she asked gruffly, carefully setting the Tentacula Spine on the table between them. Harry shook his head, feeling slightly disgruntled.

"No Professor, we were rather hoping you could tell us," he said guardedly. Sprout nodded, her bushy eyebrows locked in a scowl as she stared at the spine, looking almost offended.

"'fraid not, Potter. This is something I've never come across in my garden," she said. "And I certainly wouldn't want to. I trust Longbottom informed you about the qualities and indicators regarding Tentacula spines?" Seeing Harry nod, she continued.

"This is an abnormality. From what I gather, this spine has an exceptional potency. Far beyond the typical Tentacula spike," she murmured, eyes narrowing as she inspected the offending flora once more. She was silent for some time before she abruptly stood up. Harry, not wanting to appear churlish, did the same, only to bang painfully into the table in his haste to be courteous.

Thankfully, Sprout didn't notice. She was pacing now, possessed of some manic energy that didn't lend itself to idle chitchat. Harry felt a distinct sense of foreboding; very few interactions during his school days had gone well when Professor's were overcome by what he likened to exam-induced mania. Harry was startled out of this thought when Sprout began speaking again, her voice laden with anxiety.

"Well, we'd best start looking. I've heard rumors myself, you know; a new grower on the market, supposed to have the best supplies at half the cost. People who buy from this grower tend to disappear. Or their plants do. Or their gold. Something of that ilk. It was enough to smell rotten, so I steered clear. And then there have been suspicious things happening in the collector's circles too. Normally perfectly safe cuttings going rouge, Devil's Snare growing to three times the normal size, Mandrakes speeding through their development. Three hobbyists I know have ended up in St. Mungo's in as many months. And then I saw this…I knew I ought to stop by."

Whatever Harry had been expecting, it wasn't to be receiving tips on the black market from his old Herbology professor. "Why haven't my people heard about this?" he asked, not quite able to contain his shock.

"Oh it's been hushed up I expect. No one would want to admit to buying exotic plants on the black market, not with the fines the Ministry's doling out these days. But the underground trade is booming, make no mistake about that." Sprout said wisely, clicking her tongue in disapproval.

Harry nodded, making a thoughtful noise in his throat. After a moment, he glanced over Sprout's decidedly worn hat to make eye contact with Tremlett. A moment later she disappeared, off to fetch the parchment that she knew he would need as soon as the interview was over.

Confident Tremlett would be back soon, he turned his attention back to Pomona Sprout. "Right. Now about these mysterious deaths…"

* * *

After a better part of a half hour of Sprout detailing the backgrounds, locations, and deaths of various collectors, Harry was beginning to feel a new appreciation for Herbologists everywhere. He would also have traded said feeling for regrowing all the bones in his body. Pomona Sprout was a fantastic teacher and a wonderful conversationalist; but when worked into a frenzy, it was not at all a restful, pleasant experience he had long associated with his old professor.

Harry was relieved, and the slightest bit surprised, when he saw Tremlett, Warwick, and Ron all waiting just outside the door, clearly jockeying for position. Before it could escalate any further, he excused himself to Professor Sprout and went out to see what all the commotion was about.

All three started talking at once.

"Absolute harpy, mate, couldn't get a thing out of her-"

"I've got the parchment boss, took down the notes, and I think that-"

"Here to report sir, just had word from a pal of mine, and-"

"Stop!" Harry hissed, gesturing for silence wildly. All three froze in various attitudes. Ron looked amused, Warwick had snapped to attention, and Maggie looked absolutely offended. Harry ignored it all, and pointed to Ron.

The smile gradually died as Ron related his tale. "Got absolutely no where. That woman's a total harpy, guards the office a dragon on the clutch. Total shite, all this talk about Ministry reforms being helpful," he growled, sinking back into surliness as he remembered the past four hours spent chasing his tale at the Department of International Cooperation. "Tried getting in to see anyone, but no such luck."

Harry nodded to Tremlett. "Right. You."

Maggie snapped to attention. "Mapped out the recent spate of deaths, tracked down the names mentioned. Sprout's rumors are true. Most've been hushed up by the families though, so no luck there."

Harry nodded, thinking fast. "Right. Tremlett, I'm sending you to the Department of International Cooperation. You don't leave until you get me an interview with someone other than the desk witch. Understood?"

Tremlett nearly saluted she was so pleased with the commission. She was hastily packing her things for the day when Ron leaned over, whispering to Harry. He sounded rather sympathetic.

"Doubt it'll work mate. Woman's a total harpy. Maggie'd be better off cursing her; more productive, you know. If I had one more go at her, I'd turn her into a wash pail and give it to Kreacher for Christmas," Ron said, smirking at the thought.

"That'd make Kreacher's day that would. Maybe they can bond over pantyhose," Harry said dully.

Behind them, Warwick snorted. "Not bloody likely. Woman's a cold fish, in a constant state of a snit. Doubt anything'll faze her," the man said gruffly. Harry felt the corners of his mouth tip upwards.

"So what've you got for me Warwick?" he asked, turning to the enormous man. Warwick straightened, locking his hands behind his back as if he were some sort of military man.

"We've just got a report. Dead apothecary in Knockturn Alley. It doesn't look pretty. They found another one of those spikey buggers lodged under his skin," he said quickly. Before Harry could respond, the Professor piped up, rubbing her hands together. She had been eavesdroppoing and was making no attempt to disguise the fact.

"Ah, excellent. Well, let's go follow up." Harry shot the Professor a confused look. Sprout was pulling on a well-worn pair of dragon hide gloves, quickly followed by a pair of spectacles that magnified her eyes to nearly ridiculous size. "Come along, Potter. Unless your boys are trained in the subjugation of highly dangerous and highly toxic magical flora, I think it's best I come along. Warwick, you may carry my bag. Now, Knockturn Alley you said?" With that, Sprout bustled down the hall, Warwick following dazedly in her wake.

* * *

Maggie Tremlett did not like the look of the witch sitting demurely at the desk leading into the Department of International Cooperation. She was a lovely creature, with creamy skin and wide green eyes. Maggie took against her the moment she saw a shadow of a smirk on the full lips, and the knowing gleam in those admittedly fine eyes. That look told her this was a woman who knew exactly what her looks did to men. She would turn them into bumbling idiots for fun. No wonder Weasley and Warwick got nowhere. This woman had clearly turned greater men than they into mincemeat with no more than just the right glance and tilt of the head.

Still, she would not go back empty handed. Maggie believed one of her greatest skills was that she simply refused to accept failure. Dogged, stubborn, inflexible; all said in varying degrees of affection, and all were true. She would harass this woman till they were old and grey if that's what it took.

With that in mind, Maggie reached to her belt to flash her credentials. "Margaret Tremlett, Auror Office," she began. "I need to-"

The woman smiled sweetly, filing papers away without really looking at her. "Oh I'm afraid there's nothing we can do for you here Miss Tremlett – it is Miss, yes?" the woman asked, her voice a saccharine, affected tinkle. Maggie hated her already.

The woman didn't seem to care. "It's just as I told the other," here she paused, her tongue darted over her lips with relish, "gentlemen. We have no such reports of illegal trade activities involving the importation of classified non-tradeable substances."

The woman paused again, this time flicking away some invisible speck of dust on her sleeve. Maggie seized the chance. "We have sources – credible sources – with information to the contrary. We've-"

The witch smiled widely. "I'm afraid that just isn't the case. Otherwise we would also have the reports. No, I'm afraid your source is mistaken. In any case, as I mentioned earlier, none of our team is available at such a time anyway."

Maggie was gripped by the desire to grab the woman by the ears and shake her until a reasonable answer came out. Feeling that could be detrimental, she restrained the inclination and made to ask again, forcing politeness into her tone.

"I really must insist-"

The witch waved dismissively. The sweet smile was still in place, but it looked much more like a grimace. Her eyes were flashing, hard and cold as gems.

"Nonsense dear. You really mustn't do anything. In fact, you really mustn't stay here. I'm afraid you're making a fool of yourself. Wasting our time, you see. So why don't you run along now," the witch said, all in the same honeyed tone.

Maggie felt as if she had been slapped. She decided that perhaps the ear-shaking technique would be better. She leaned forward, rage causing her words to strike the woman like a hammer.

"Look, maybe you don't mind that a little boy's just lost his granddad. I know for a fact that two of your experts are in today, the third's out for a cappuccino, and the fourth is round visiting his mum. So either you get off your bum and do something to help, or I'll stop giving a damn that you're a colleague and have you hauled up for impeding a murder investigation," she hissed, leaning heavily on the desk. The woman quailed under Maggie's furious gaze, and was opening her mouth when there was a stuttered step from behind.

"Oh, not interrupting anything ladies?" the man asked, edging closer to the hallway. This tall thin man looked familiar, with his sleek black hair and slightly watery blue eyes. Maggie's mind blanked, and then focused.

"Mr. Scamander," she said, nearly pouncing on the as-of-yet un-offered hand. "Maggie Tremlett, Auror Office. If I could just have a moment of your-"

Rolf Scamander yanked his hand back, looking at her with only thinly veiled distaste. "'Fraid not. Terribly busy. I must get back to work. Marnie, if you could…"

And with that, Scamander fled down the hall, robes flapping awkwardly in his haste to put distance between him and the terrifyingly direct young woman in the foyer. Maggie made to follow, only to her a sharp bang from behind her. The door snapped shut.

The witch had recovered her nerve. "As you can see, nothing at all we can do for you. Now if you would be so kind…"

Maggie abruptly found herself in the main corridor, her breath misting over the gleaming bronze plaque so had so admired on her way in. She stood there for a full minute, wanting nothing more than to fling the door open and turn the woman into a tea cozy.

_Oh that does it,_ she seethed. _If they want to play dirty, so can I._

* * *

_Woohoo!_ Sorry for the delay. Wedding two weeks ago, then sick as a dog last week. Seriously all I could do to go to work/ stay up to date there. But I'm back, and the story should move pretty quickly from here on out. Working on a second case; I'd love to hear your thoughts!

~HA


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